


Phantom Memories and Incompetent Dads

by Mandibles



Series: Tumblr Prompts [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek being oddly comforting, F/M, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Partner Betrayal, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cross-posted from Tumblr. Jackson goes into heat during a blue moon and Scott knocks him up and they have adorable Scackson babies. [Just, uh, sans babies just yet.]</p><p>UPDATE: I ACTUALLY PLAN ON REWRITING THIS LATER ON THIS MONTH. So. Yeah. Expect that, I suppose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phantom Memories and Incompetent Dads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilgrimKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilgrimKitty/gifts).



Scott can’t be sure what’s worse: the horror that crosses Jackson’s face, the betrayal on Allison’s, or the realization that—oh god—he’s a dad. Or going to be, Deaton claims as Jackson rests a trembling hand over his stomach. For a moment, no makes eye contact, no one breathes, then there’s a choked sob and Allison’s storming out the door in a flurry of hair and angry tears. Scott instinctively makes to go after her, but then Jackson’s making a distressed sound of his own, burying his head in his hands.

Scott’s heart clenches for the both of them and for the first time in a long time, he isn’t sure that chasing after Allison is the best decision he could make. He finds himself stuck, hallway out the door, halfway in, and he hangs there helplessly as the saline smell of Allison’s tears reaches his nose and the broken stammer of Jackson’s denials reaches his ears.

A hand, large and warm, squeezes his shoulder, and Scott finds himself reassured. Surprisingly, it’s Derek’s hand, Derek’s low mutter of, “Go after her,” that gives Scott the strength to calm his frantic heartbeat, to move his feet.

Allison didn’t make it far at all; Scott finds her just outside the vet’s office, leaning against the wall, hugging herself. She’s huffed breaths and silent tears and the guilt constricts Scott’s throat, his lungs, and he approaches clumsily, unsure of what to do. “Allison …”

She stiffens. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“Don’t,” she grits, clutching her arms tightly, “Please, Scott, just—just—” She looks up then, her face red and wet and as furious as it is upset, and demands, “How long?”

Scott worries at his lip, then, “Once. Just once while you and I were—were broken up.”

“And you never thought to tell me?”

“We swore never to talk about it again.” Scott insists. “It was the full moon. We weren’t—we didn’t—It just  _happened_.” The worst part of it, Scott thinks, is that he actually doesn’t know exactly what  _did_  happen that night. But, sometimes when he closes his eyes, he swears that his body remembers. His hands remember gripping Jackson’s hips; his lips remember Jackson’s biting kisses; and his nose remembers the overwhelming stink of sweat, dirt, spunk, blood, grass, and _Jackson_.

(Sometimes he remembers barking words he would never admit to saying, things like,  _breed_  and  _pups_  and  _knot_  and  _mate_  and  _fuck fuck fuck fuck_ —)

How could he have told her that he snaps awake some nights, flushed and trembling and  _hard_ , because of a phantom memory of a night he couldn’t be sure actually happened? He knew that she would look at him as she does now, with furious disbelief. Hell, he barely believes what’s happening himself.

Scott licks his lips, scrambling for words. “I-It didn’t mean anything, Allison. I promise you that.”

She pushes off the wall then, Allison, then, as Scott opens his mouth to speak, she slaps him with a sharp crack and storms down the street. And, Scott just … stands there, the stinging in his cheek and the quickly staling scent of Allison the only concrete evidence that what happened happened. Minutes pass before he musters the strength to go back into the clinic.

Scott doesn’t know what he expects, but it isn’t Jackson leaning against the examination table quietly, Deaton rubbing small circles on his back.  The door snaps shut, turning all attention on him, and the hopelessness on Jackson’s ashen face is quickly replaced by rage.

“You did this to me!” Jackson hisses, ignoring his Alpha’s warning rumble. “You—You  _bastard_ , you—!”

Scott almost doesn’t argue. Almost. “But, I—we—”

“This is all your fault, McCall! I—”

Derek growls. “Jackson, don’t—”

“You’re all to blame,” Deaton declares, his words not loud yet still harsh enough to drive the other three to silence. He pins Derek in particular with a firm frown. “ _All_  of you.” Derek looks horrified, but, surprisingly, bites his tongue. “But, we aren’t here to point fingers. We need a plan.”

“Plan?” Jackson jerks away from Deaton’s continuing touch. “The only  _plan_  is to get this thing the hell out of me! You’re some witch thing, right? You’ve got something for this somewhere?”

At Deaton’s silence, Jackson’s anger falters and Scott feels as much as sees the despair that crosses his face.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be fucking  _sorry_. You can’t expect me to just stay like this!”

“For now, you have no choice,” Deaton says gently, giving Jackson’s thigh a comforting squeeze. “Until I see what we’re really dealing with, I don’t want to take any risks.”

Jackson becomes increasingly pallid, shaky, in the following silence until, “I’m gonna puke.”

And, Scott is at his side with a wastebin just in time. It’s strange to be so close to Jackson after so long, even if it’s just to be there as he gags and chokes, the sickly sweet reek of vomit burning his nose. Scott frowns when Jackson begins to cry quietly, physically and mentally strained, and carting his fingers through Jackson’s hair turns into the most natural thing to do.

Scott catches Deaton’s raised eyebrows, swallows. “S-So, what do we do now?”

Jackson spits into the bin, wipes his mouth. “We? What do you mean  _we_? We’re not doing a goddamned—” The sentence fades into nothing as Derek curls his hand around the back of Jackson’s neck, his thumb softly stroking the hairs along his nape. No one expects it, not even Derek from his wide eyes, but Scott finds himself grateful for the gesture.

Scott scratches at Jackson’s scalp. “This is my fault, too, Jackson. You’re not doing this alone,” he insists, “I mean, I—I wouldn’t  _let_  you do this alone. That’s our—our—”

The unspoken word hangs heavily as the seconds pass. Yet, Jackson doesn’t wrench away from them or yell or anything like that. He just hangs his head, dangerously close to butting his forehead with Scott’s, and mumbles, “I just want—I want to go home. Let me go  _home_.”

Deaton offers a sympathetic frown. “I don’t—”

“Of course,” Scott interrupts, setting the wastebin aside. “I’ll drive you, okay? I mean, if that’s all right.”

Jackson stares at him for moment, but then wordlessly fishes out his keys, hands them to Scott. Nodding at Derek’s sharp, “We’ll talk later,” look, they make their way into Jackson’s car. The ride is silent, tense, with Jackson curled up in his seat, face pressed against the window. He sniffles from time to time, tries and fails to cover it with coughs and snorts, and it takes Scott everything he has not to reach out for him.

When did that start? When did he start wanting— _needing_ —to touch Jackson?

Scott exhales deeply, eyes trained on the road, trained away from how good Jackson’s presence feels beside him, like home, like pack, like—like— He doesn’t know. There’s something there, something mixed up and fucked, that he doesn’t understand.

The steering wheel squeaks as his grip tightens. “Jackson, look, I—”

“Don’t.”

“Jackson—”

“ _Don’t_.”

The deja vu sends Scott reeling and he bites his lip hard. “Can you just listen to what I have to say? Please? Please, I can’t—” He can’t take anymore rejection, not after—after  _Allison_. Fuck.

Jackson squeezes his eyes shut; his swallow is loud to Scott’s ears. “What is it?”

“Okay. I—I—”

“Fuck, McCall. Don’t say that you—”

“No!” Scott almost shouts. He catches Jackson’s wounded look in the rearview. “No, I mean—I know we haven’t really seen eye to eye, well, ever, but I just wanted to say that I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that night and I’m sorry for—for this.” Scott licks his lips, tastes copper. “I want you to know that I’m here for you, okay? Every step of the way.”

A beat, then Jackson purses his lips. “Fuck you.”

“Wha—”

“Do you mean me or the—the  _baby_?”

 _Shit_ , there it is, the word they’ve been dancing around for hours, the word not even Deaton could bring himself to say. They pull up in front of Jackson’s house and turn to each other. They don’t frown or glare; they just look.

With no hesitation, Scott breathes, “You. Both of you,” he adds, reaching to rest a tentative hand on Jackson’s stomach. Jackson’s body quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t make to pull away. “I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

Eyes flash blue. A feral whimper pulls from Jackson’s throat, unbidden, and Scott feels his wolf growl possessively in return. But, then, Jackson shoves him off and the moment is gone.

 “Don’t feed me that shit, McCall!” Jackson scrambles for the door latch and starts climbing out. “Go fuck—” He chokes at the hand grasping his. “What are you—”

“You smell like me,” Scott blurts, startled by the realization himself. “I think you have for a while, since—since that night.”  _You smell like mine_ , he doesn’t say.

Jackson’s dumbstruck, his jaw slackening slightly, then he quickly sets his jaw. “Tell me, McCall. Do you—Do you really want this?”

That takes a bit to consider and Scott finds himself curling both hands around Jackson’s. A strained smile. “I—I really have no clue. You know, I’d probably make a shitty dad in hindsight. Besides, I want to do right by you, Jackson. Do you want to have the, er, baby?”

Jackson’s stare is insistent and Scott finds himself lost in his discomfort. He finally breaks the gaze and sighs down at their hands. “You’d make a pretty incompetent dad,” Jackson agrees with a slight nod. “But, I don’t think you’d be a bad one,” he finishes. Before Scott can even comprehend the words, Jackson’s drawing away, accepting the keys and walking up the lawn. It hits Scott just as he climbs out of the Porsche, just as Jackson unlocks his front door. Jackson casts a final glance over his shoulder and Scott finds himself grinning broadly, dopily, for the first time in what feels like forever.

Because, when Jackson places his hand on his stomach, he mouths,  _Thank you_ , and it isn’t a yes or a no, but is enough to save Scott a few sleepless nights. And, until shit starts making sense, that’s enough. 


	2. Empty Parking Spots and Phone Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think that I'll be updating this story too frequently or regularly, but there will be things. And stuff. Also, I don't really have any set plot for this, so it can really go _anywhere_.

Scott can’t be sure what’s worse: the fact that Jackson’s parking spot is empty, the fact that Allison decided to break up with him in said parking spot, or the fact that he’s too strained to care about either of those things. Yeah, he thought that things would start to make sense now that everything is, you know, out there. Known. But instead all he’s gotten is a heavy heart and black circles round his eyes.

Still, as Allison says things like, “I can’t,” and “We can’t,” Scott can’t help but give her his full attention, because she’s his first love, his first everything, and all he can do stand there helplessly, knowing that he still loves her, probably always will. He wants to tell her, the words building on the back of his tongue, but she can’t handle that. _He_ can’t handle that.  

So when she finally draws back, staggers with a “I just—I—” Scott only nods dumbly and offers a pitiful, “I’m sorry. Really, I—I’m _sorry_.”

It really is the stupidest thing he could say.

She bites her lip, turns toward the school, and that’s the end—the _real_ end—of it, of them. But, he knows it will hit him later. What he doesn’t expect is the sharp pinch of nails in his arm, the sharp pinch of Lydia’s face.

“What the hell did you do to my boyfriend?” she demands, all malice and lip-gloss.

Scott stares, stomach sinking. “Wha—He told you?”

Lydia tilts her head, suspicion and curiosity and—fuck—concern peaked and strong. “He didn’t tell me a damn thing. But, he did almost bite my head off when I saw him yesterday, and there is no way that isn’t related to your—your _wolf_ thing,” she finishes with a vague gesture.

“Are you okay? Did he—”

“No,” Lydia says quickly, too quickly, and she covers her anxiety with a slower, “He’d never think of hurting me.”

Scott doesn’t need to be werewolf to catch the tremor in her voice, the _lie_. He instinctively squeezes her arm. “I’ll check up on him, okay?”

Lydia nods stiffly, easing her arm from his grasp. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.” She turns sharply on her heel and struts off in a chorus of clacks, leaving Scott to stand in Jackson’s vacant parking spot, the staling scents of the three of them—JacksonAllisonLydia—making his chest clench. There’s something else there, too, something smaller, sweeter, fainter, and though he tries his best to stamp it out, his wolf claws for it, whines for it.

School is impossible after that. Paying Derek that visit quickly becomes first priority.

Hours later, Scott realizes that if things are going to make sense at some point, it probably won’t be any time soon. It’s Derek who cements this for him, Derek who practically tackles him the second he steps on the porch, pins him with a snarled, “Did you knot him?”

And, Scott just stares, because, “What?”

“On the full moon, Scott,” Derek demands, words clipped, stony, like he’s berating a child. “Did you knot Jackson that night?”

“I don’t understand what that means!” Scott yells back, but it’s a lie. He has broken, loose memories of growling the word, of Jackson moaning the word, of their bodies being linked for ever and ever and ever as Scott came and came and _came_.

Derek doesn’t need to call him on his lie; his scowl is enough. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know—I don’t—” Scott scratches fingers through his hair, tries and fails to lower his voice. “I don’t even remember most of what happened that night! I just—I just remember—” Jackson.  The pointed pinch of elongated fangs, claws, words. His firm, tight thighs, sharp hips, and blue, blue eyes. He remembers wanting Jackson—wanting to _fuck_ Jackson—in that moment more than he’s wanted anything in his life. “I don’t understand what happened!”

There’s a low chuckle and Derek moves aside so Peter can step onto the porch, arms folded. “You were in heat, you fucked him, and you knotted him,” he says simply. “You work with dogs, don’t you, Scott? You should know this.”

Disbelief short-circuits Scott’s mind, leaving it empty. “But, we’re humans—”

“We’re _werewolves_ ,” Derek corrects.

“You’ve changed a lot in the past year,” Peter adds smugly.

Scott shakes his head. “But, that’s never happened with—” The two Hales exchange knowing looks and the sentence sputters to halt, dissolves into nothing. “What?”

Derek grimaces at Peter’s expectant look, muttering like a child before rolling his shoulders, tightening his jaw. He sighs deeply, then, “Look, during the blue moon, you—the two of you—claimed each other.” When Scott makes no attempt to speak, he continues, “You’re mates, Scott. Bound for life.”

For _life_.

“T-That—That—no. No, that doesn’t make—” Scott rubs at his eyes, a night of no sleep and Jackson’s empty parking space and Allison’s terse text messages and Lydia’s pinched suspicion suddenly catching up with him. “What about the—the baby? What does that have to do with anything?”

Peter’s grin spreads to full shit-eating capacity. “Well, that’s news! I don’t suppose congratulations are in order for the new daddy?”

Scott swallows thickly, his heart hammering in his chest.

(The word is still so strange to Scott, because the idea is so strange to him. He thinks about it—about being a—a—a father. A dad. And he just—he just can’t think about it. He thinks about his own father and he _can’t_.)

“Leave it,” Derek growls, waving his uncle off. He turns his attention back to Scott. “We don’t know, yet. Deaton needs him to come in again.” There’s a question in there, a demand if Derek was so pressed, and Scott wants absolutely _no_ part in it.

But, somehow, Scott knows that he doesn’t have much say in the matter. Not since the only thing he wants right now is to see Jackson’s surly frown, to press his nose into Jackson’s neck to ingrain that smell to memory, to run his hand over that place where he knows their child grows inside him. A more feral thought worms its way in, of taking Jackson again, of filling him again with brown-eyed Latino puppies, and Scott can’t be sure if it’s the wolf’s mind alone that wants that.

Either way, he finds himself punching Jackson’s number by heart, but unlike yesterday afternoon and last night and this morning and this afternoon, he actually hits _Talk_.


	3. Best Friends and Tomorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's really crappy, because I'm tired, sick, and I just took Nyquil, but here's a thing.

Scott can’t be sure what’s worse: the realization that Jackson won’t answer his calls or the fact that that doesn’t stop Scott from calling. Over and over and over again. He fills his voicemail with mumbled strings of, “Look, Jackson,” and, “Hey,” and, “Can we talk, please?” with the underlying I miss you, I need you, I don’t know why, but I do, unspoken but there. It’s to the point where he calls just to hear Jackson’s voicemail, his voice, because the sound of it eases the ache growing in his chest with every passing day.

Jackson doesn’t show up to school the next day. He doesn’t show up the next day either, or the day after that, and by Friday, Scott can’t go down the hall without making a beeline for Jackson’s locker, for that faint trace of his scent. He stands before it every day, his breath coming in stuttering flutters with Lydia, Allison, and Stiles boring holes into his back.

It’s to the point where he shows up at Stiles’ window just to use his cellphone, because if he didn’t, it would’ve been Jackson’s window instead, and he isn’t sure how that would turn out. Stiles’ betrayed frown is deep when he reaches for his cellphone and he’s quick to pull it out of reach. Scott barely resists the urge to claw after it, settling for drawing back altogether.

“Stiles, come on! He’d answer if he thought it was you!”

“No,” his friend says firmly, slipping the cellphone into his pocket and patting it for good measure. “Not until you, I don’t know—” He makes a vague gesture. “—start making some kind of sense.”

Scott makes a strangled noise. “I already told you everything I know!” he insists.

“Uh, no you didn’t. You just told me that Jackson’s—Jackson’s—”

“ _Pregnant_ ,” Scott bites and Stiles just shakes his head, shrugs.

“Okay, yeah, see that’s the part that’s not making sense. I mean,” Stiles scrubs at his face. “First off, he’s a guy and, you know, doesn’t have the bits necessary for . . . that. Second, what, is this some kind of immaculate conception sort of thing? And, third, _are you fucking crazy_? Jackson can’t be pregnant!”

Scott drops back onto Stiles’ bed with a groan and digs at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He doesn’t want to say it; he really, really, _really_ doesn’t—

“It’s mine.”

Silence. Scott doesn’t need to see Stiles to know the flabbergasted look he must wear, but when the quiet draws on a little longer than it normally would, he can’t help but drop his hands. The gawping, singing fish look he expects isn’t there though; there’s only a startlingly sober Stiles with pinched eyebrows and a stiff jaw. His stare is hard.

Stiles’ nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. “What’s yours?” he asks slowly.

And, Scott can’t not respond to that dark tone. “It’s—It’s mine. The baby. Jackson and I, we’re—” His voice breaks. “It’s mine,” he repeats.

Brown eyes snap shut and Scott isn’t quite sure what to do; this isn’t how he thought Stiles would take it. Sure, tasteless jokes probably would have hurt more than anything, but that was how Stiles punished Scott for his frequent stupidity. This though, this—disappointment? Is that what it is?—is too severe for Scott to know his grounding. So, he waits patiently for Stiles to make the first move.

Which is a hard whap to the head.

“Ow!” Scott brings his arms up in defense when Stiles hits him again.

“You dumbass!” Stiles hisses, raining pulled slaps and punches down on Scott. “You stupid, stupid, fucking werewolf! You could have told me! I mean, yeah, you boning Jackson is kind of weird, almost as weird as the whole pregnant thing, but I would’ve forgiven you for it! I woulda—” He shoves at Scott who draws in tighter, but that seems to be the end of his Stiles’ outburst as the bed shifts, weight moving away and off. “Dammit, Scott, you didn’t have to go through it on your own, you know.”

Scott peeks through his arms and draws them away once he decides it’s safe. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you, man. I only just found out, like, a few days ago. Trust me, after I finished freaking out, telling my best friend was top priority.”

“It better’ve been,” Stiles says with a nod. “So, what’s Jackson . . . ?”

Scott sits up, offers a one-armed shrug. “I don’t even know what he’s doing. But, we need to figure out what’s going on and he’s not answering my calls—” He instinctively catches the phone thrown at him. A smile eases onto his face.

Stiles shrugs, smiling himself. “Yeah, I think I get the picture. He’s probably wallowing in denial right about now. Mourning his abs, maybe? Do you think Lydia would break up with him if—Anyway.” Stiles waves dismissively before plopping before his desktop and starting to chew on his thumbnail. “You call him and I’ll do some research of my own, ‘kay?”

Scott nods, heart pounding as he dials Jackson’s number. “Thanks,” he offers.

A snort. “You can thank me once I figure out whether I’m an uncle or not—oh, wait, ugh.” Stiles swings his computer chair towards him. “Do I actually have to be nice to him?”

Scott huffs a laugh. The other line rings and his voice gets tighter. “It’d be nice, but—”

The phone picks up. The sentence meets a choking death.

“Hello?”

Oh _god_ , the relief that spreads through Scott just at his voice is instantaneous. It takes the edge off of the days-long ache that built in his stomach, but in the end, the ache only strikes back, full-force.

“Stilinski?

Scott closes his eyes, exhales deeply as he curls into the phone. “No. No, it’s m—Don’t hang up!”

A beat.

“Seriously, McCall? You told Stilinski? Who else have you—”

“No one—I haven’t— _Look_ , we need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing to—You can’t hide from this, Jackson! It’s not just going to disappear!”

“I can figure this out by myself. Why should I go to some vet when I’ve got an army of doctors on speed dial?”

Scott makes a strangled noise. “Are you kidding me? And, what’re you going to tell them? The truth?”

“I—” Jackson’s voice sputters and he tries again. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Jackson, you—This is serious! You either do nothing and have the baby—probably _die_ from it, I don’t know—or we figure this out together and stop it from happening!” When Jackson doesn’t answer, Scott continues a little gentler. “Neither of us asked for this to happen, but it did and we have to figure things out. I just want to _help_ , okay? I told you that I’m here for you.”

There’s a long pause, Scott settling into the simple sounds of Jackson breathing, then, “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Jackson mumbles, “Come to my house.” He hangs up.

After a moment, Scott manages to stop staring at the phone, meets Stiles’ curious gaze. And, Scott breaks into a grin that’s not entirely his, but the giddy wolf father inside of him, when he says, “Tomorrow.”


End file.
